Not Quite True
by Perseus Malfoy
Summary: Time seemed to slow when he fired the bullet. I'll admit I half expected him to do something incredibly clever to get us out of it. Now, this case has been left to me and nothing Moriarty, Irene Adler, or the bloody hounds do will stop me from solving it.
1. Up in Fire

**Author's Note: I know I should be writing River of Time, but I've recently become obsessed with Sherlock, so I just had to write something about it. Sorry if I use language that you don't use across the pond – I'm from America so some of it may seem weird. Unfortunately, I don't own Sherlock.**

Time seemed to slow when he fired the bullet. I had been turning it over in my mind, trying to think of any and every way we could save ourselves, but nothing could have prepared me for the actual explosion. I'd half expected Sherlock to do something incredibly clever so that he wouldn't even have to fire the gun, but the way he looked at the bomb-covered jacket told me otherwise. Once I heard the gun fire, I let my instincts take over. I forced myself up and jump towards Sherlock, planning on pulling him out of the way. Instead, I found myself tumbling into the pool, Sherlock's body covering mine. Reds and oranges flashed into view as I sunk to the bottom of the pool. Pieces of shrapnel and debris rained into the water, grazing my arms and legs.

I started to swim for the surface when my leg hit something. I almost gasped when I saw him on the floor of the pool, red liquid mixing with the water around him. The gun lay next to him, his hand still clutching it. I was vaguely aware of a numb pain in my arm, but I didn't care. I swam back down, my heart beating fast, and wrapped my arms around Sherlock's limp body. The gun began to slip from his grip as I struggled towards the surface, my lungs screaming for air.

My first breath once we broke the surface was full of ash and heat. Moriarty was nowhere to be found, but I doubted he'd been killed in the explosion. I dragged Sherlock to the side of the pool, which was now ruined and torn apart. Blood was soaking through his shirt and jacket on his right side. I pulled out my phone, praying to God that it hadn't been ruined in the water. The screen was cracked, but it flickered feebly to life. I dialed the ambulance, placing the phone down next to me so that they'd trace the call and pulling my friends jacket off. I tore the sleeve of his shirt off to reveal a gaping wound from the shrapnel and pulled off my jumper, pushing it against the hole in his arm.

It seemed to take hours for the ambulance to come. I'd expected Sherlock to be unconscious from the amount of blood he'd lost, but his eyes remained open, studying me as I put pressure against his wound.

"John..." He whispered, but his voice came out raspy and left his lips glistening red with blood.

"Don't." I said back, knowing the effort it took to talk could drain him even more. The wail of an ambulance echoed through the night at last. I heard the footsteps and surprised shouts at the sight of the wreckage as paramedics ran over, pulling Sherlock out from under me and putting him on a stretcher. They tried to help me up and tend to me, but I waved them off. The pain in my arms and legs was becoming more prominent, but if Sherlock could stay conscious and aware while he bled half to death, I could handle some shrapnel to the arm.

I was led to a separate ambulance, despite my asking to be in the same one as Sherlock. The ride to the hospital was brutal, what with my wandering thoughts of what had become of my friend, the growing pain all over my body, and the group of paramedics surrounding me. I looked back through the windows of the ambulance, searching for a sign as to where Moriarty had disappeared to. The pool had been completely ripped apart, leaving only a huge crater and piles of rubble where it had once been. Only an hour ago I'd been forced through the doors, bombs strapped to my jacket and an ear piece stuck in my ear. Moriarty's high voice still rang through my mind. Only when the ambulance stopped and Sherlock was carried into the hospital did my racing thoughts seize. Now they were focused on one thing.

Sherlock.


	2. The Hound

**Author's Note: I've pretty much based this fic on the three clue words we were given for series 2 (Hounds, Adler, and Reichenbach). Thanks to those of you that reviewed. I think I'm gonna post on the weekends. Five days is enough to finish two chapters, right? Here's chapter two for you. Those of you that find the references to the original stories get virtual candy :P I don't own Sherlock.**

One Week Later

Only now do I understand Sherlock's constant boredom between cases.

Not only was there nothing to do in the week he lay in bed, but there was no one to talk to. The flat was completely quiet without Sherlock talking to himself or pacing across the room. I'd resulted to sitting in his room watching him rest recently, just so I'd have something to do other than try to clean the mess he'd left behind or read old newspapers.

He was sleeping when I entered the room that afternoon. I sat on the edge of the bed and sighed, wishing he'd get up. The doctors had said he'd be able to move around again in a few more days, but I couldn't take the silence surrounding me. I felt my thoughts becoming like Sherlock's, finding myself wishing something exciting and dangerous would happen so I could rid myself of this boredom.

"John, are you up there?" Mrs. Hudson's voice called from the door to the flat.

"Yeah, I'm coming." I found her waiting in the doorway, looking around for a sign as to where I'd gone. A young man stood behind her, gazing around the rooms. I entered the room slowly. "Here."

"Ah, there you are." She smiled as I walked over. "Were you with Sherlock?"

"Yeah."

"How is he?"

"Fine. He's sleeping right now."

"Good." She nodded and led the man behind her forward. "This man has come to see you."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson." The man said, entering the room and putting out his hand. "I'm Dr. James Mortimer."

I shook his hand and led him to the sofa. "How can I help you, Dr. Mortimer?"

"I've got a case for you." The man said, leaning back.

I studied him for a moment, trying to deduce something from his appearance in the way Sherlock was so skilled at. Finally, I gave up and looked back at his face, "You do know that Sherlock is -"

"Yes, yes, I'm well aware of his condition. However, I've read your blog and it seems that you are just as capable as him in helping me."

"Well, I don't know about that," I said, smiling, "But I'd be happy to help you in any case."

"Good. I'll get straight to the point then. My patient, Sir Charles Baskerville, was found dead yesterday in the woods near his estate." Dr. Mortimer said. I leaned forward, intrigued. He continued, "He was known to have a weak heart, the poor old man. I've looked over his body and it seemed to be a heart attack, but I doubt it. I think it was the hound."

"I'm sorry?"

"The hound. Hellhound, to be exact. Some think it's a legend, but I don't believe it is."

"What hound?"

"It lives up near Sir Baskerville's estate in Devon. It's a sort of ghost story, I suppose. A curse. It attacked and killed members of the Baskerville family way back." He studied my face, as if trying to figure out if I believed him or not. "I didn't think it was real until I found my patient killed up there."

I sat in silence for a moment, thinking about what he'd said. "Were there any signs of an attack?"

"Some. Leading up to the body the footprints looked like he'd been running. Just a few weeks ago he found out about the curse and I think it gave him quite a shock." Dr. Mortimer moved closer. "And, if you look closely, there are large footprints in the ground, like a giant hound, near the man's body. Now, tell me that isn't suspicious."

I nodded. "Was there anyone near by that could have attacked him? Any sign of there being someone else there?"

"I've deduced that he may have been waiting for someone at the time of his death, but there weren't any footprints other than Baskerville's own."

"Does the man have any family?" I asked, trying to think of some of the many questions I'd seen Sherlock ask his clients.

"Yes, he has a nephew. His name is Henry. He's coming up to Devon to collect his inheritance soon, but I'm worried that he may be hurt as well."

"Alright, then." I cleared my throat and stood up. "I'll tell Sherlock about it when he wakes up. We'll see what we can do."

"Oh, thank you, Dr. Watson." Mortimer nodded and stuck out his hand. I shook it and smiled.

"We'll call you if we find anything." I assured him, leading him to the door.

"Thank you again." He smiled and hurried down the stairs.

I looked around the empty room and sighed. Silence once again. Unsure of what to do now, I walked back to Sherlock's room. Surprisingly, he lay awake, his fingertips pressed together in that all too familiar way.

"An interesting case, John." He smiled as I entered. His voice was still coarse, but I could tell he was delighted by the new work we'd been offered. "I'm sure you'll have no trouble solving it."


	3. Don't Move

**Author's Note: Another chapter for today, just because I'm not in the mood to do homework. I may even finish another later on. This will probably be the last chapter that follows The Hound of the Baskervilles as the other did. I'll still have some of the points in the story in here, but I've got to get moving on the other two clue words :) I don't own Sherlock (obviously).**

That weekend, Sherlock sent me to see Sir Henry Baskerville. I wasn't completely sure of his motives, but he convinced me that it was important. Baskerville had recently arrived from Canada to collect his inheritance, so I prepared to visit his hotel.

"We're out of milk, by the way." Sherlock told me as I put on my jacket. He'd been allowed out of the room and now lounged on the couch.

"I'll pick some up." I said. "Is there anything else you need?"

"I don't think there's any jam either."

"I'll get some of that too, then." I sighed. Sometimes it seemed he was making me work harder purposefully. "Don't move, alright? You'll end up hurting yourself again."

"That was one time." He said, giving me a quick look and attempting to shift on the sofa, most likely just to prove that he could move without ending up on the ground again. "It's not my fault my legs aren't working properly."

"Yeah, well... just don't move." I called over my shoulder as I left the flat. I called a taxi and left for the hotel. It felt strange going on a case without Sherlock sitting next to me, even if he never spoke during most of the ride.

The taxi arrived at the London hotel quickly, leaving me early to meet Sir Baskerville. I arrived at his door several minutes before I was supposed to, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to knock. The door was answered by a young man, around his late twenties. He seemed worried and confused, but he faked a smile on seeing me.

"You must be Dr. Watson, then?"

"Yes, sir, I was just hoping to ask you a few questions."

"Oh, call me Henry." He closed the door behind us and led me into the room. "I actually was hoping you'd arrive early. I've just received something I was hoping I could ask _you_ about."

"What is it?"

"A letter. It slid under the door this morning." He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a piece of paper. A faint smell of perfume surrounded it.

"'Beware the Devon moors.'" I read aloud. The letters had been cut from magazines and newspapers. "Do you have any idea what that means?"

"I think it's referring to my uncle's estate." He shrugged. "I've heard of your friend's skills and I was hoping you could learn something about the sender of it. Maybe they're the one that killed my uncle."

"Maybe." I nodded, studying the paper and doing my best to deduce something about it. "It's clearly from a woman, unless the man wears perfume."

Henry chuckled. "Yeah, I doubt that."

"I'll bring this to Sherlock. Maybe he'll be able to make something of it." I shifted in my seat. "So, Henry, can I ask you a few questions now?"

"Ask away." The man said, leaning back.

I learned little of the case after interrogating him. The only thing that could have been of importance was that there was only one other relative in the family, a man named Roger. Other than that, nothing seemed extremely significant.

"Alright, thank you, Henry. I'll call you about this letter if we find out anything." I said as I left the room.

"Thanks, Dr. Watson." He nodded at me and closed the door.

The ride home seemed longer than the trip to the hotel, most likely because I was eager to show Sherlock the mysterious letter Sir Henry had received. That, and I was slightly worried he'd hurt himself again.

"John? Is that you?" Sherlock called from the flat as I walked through the door. I entered to find him lying on the ground, most likely unable to get up.

I sighed, looking down at his awkward position and struggling to keep a straight face. "What happened?"

He hesitated to answer. "... I moved."

I couldn't keep from smiling as I helped him onto the sofa. "I specifically told you not to. I clearly remember saying 'Don't move'."

"Well, I left some of my papers in my room." He stretched out on the couch, apparently thinking that this was a perfectly sound reason to disregard my orders.

"And I'm guessing you fell and were too sore to get up."

"Right." He gave me a smile and turned his eyes toward the letter in my hand. "What's that?"

"It was delivered to Sir Henry this morning." I answered, handing it to him. He studied the paper, his eyes searching for clues. Only after he'd finished looking at the paper did he read the letters glued to it.

"Beware the Devon moors." He looked up at me. "That's the Baskerville's estate."

I nodded. "Any idea who it's from?"

"Oh, I know exactly who it's from." He said, struggling to sit up.

"Sherlock, please, don't move." I tried to keep him from getting up but he pushed against me.

"We need to go to the Baskerville estate." He insisted.

"I'll go, you need to stay here."

The look on his face resembled a child's after being refused a toy. I sighed. "Sherlock, you can't come."

He settled back on the couch, pouting.

"Who's the letter from, then?" I asked.

"The perfume on it is a rare kind, found only in Bohemia." He explained, his eyes dancing over the paper. "I only know of one woman that owns it."

"Who?"

"Irene Adler."


	4. Always the Woman

**Author's Note: Alright, there is where I start to deviate from the original plot more. It's also where it starts to get more intense (yay~) so I'm having more fun writing this. One more clue word left now! Sorry this chapter's kind of short. Once again, thanks to those of you that reviewed. I really love when you leave your opinion, good or bad (seriously, critical reviews are always helpful). I don't own Sherlock.**

Of course, I'd heard of Irene Adler before. To Sherlock, she was always _the_ woman. The only person to out smart him, the only person capable of beating him at his own game.

Sherlock had become better over the two days following my visit to the hotel. He was able to move and walk around the flat, but I still didn't believe he was stable.

Despite the warning in the letter Irene Adler had supposedly sent, Sherlock insisted that I go to the Baskerville estate and investigate. Unfortunately, he also insisted that he come along.

"The doctor said I could start moving around more after two weeks, didn't he?"

"Yes, Sherlock, but -"

"And it'll have been two weeks tomorrow, won't it?"

"Yes, but you're not fit to -"

"You'll need my help."

"I will not! I'm perfectly capable of figuring this out on my own."

"I wasn't saying you can't, but I still think -"

"Sherlock!" I interrupted, thoroughly annoyed with his childish behavior. "For the last time, you cannot come! You're still hurt."

He stared at me from he spot on the couch, a glare that it seemed I'd become immune to after seeing it so many times. I kept my eyes trained on his, trying not to flinch under his gaze.

After a moment, he looked away. "Fine." A look of anger and frustration covered his face as he got up shakily and walked to his room.

I stood there unmoving for several minutes before I started for the door, a feeling of guilt spreading through my chest.

* * *

I arrived at the estate just as the sky started to blacken. It felt eerie and deserted, not a sound breaking through the silence of the long, grass covered yard. I started towards the house, intending on invesigating it a bit before heading towards the trees, when a shadow caught my eye. Though there was nothing there now, I could have sworn I'd seen something move in one of the upper windows. The sight caused me to stop, feeling that perhaps going inside the house wasn't the best idea. I stood in the center of the lawn, looking between the house and the trees. The woods where Sir Charles Baskerville had been killed were close by, but I was almost afraid to go over there. I had to keep reminding myself that the curse couldn't be real.

I stood in the grass, staring at the woods in front of me. A thick fog was beginning to spread, making me even more worried. I tried to ignore the morbid thoughts running through my head, but they were spreading like wild fire to every part of my brain. I began to wish that Sherlock was there, just so I'd have his familiar tall figure ahead of me.

Taking a shaky breath, I turned on my flashlight and started towards the woods. They were dark; the tree tops blocked most of the light coming from the moon. My footsteps crunched in the few leaves on the ground, leaving footprints in the moist ground.

I reached the spot where Sir Charles had been found quickly. An imprint of his body was still there, along with a large, animal like footprint. I crouched down, studying the print. It had clearly come from a dog, a large one. I bent closer, trying to get a better look, when a massive force pushed me to the ground. I gasped as I hit the ground, struggling to look up and see who'd pushed me down. I managed to turn over, only to find myself staring down the barrel of a gun. A woman stood over me, her dark hair falling into her face as she placed a foot on my chest.

"Dr. John Watson." She whispered, bending closer to me. The heavy smell of a familiar perfume surrounded her. "There's someone who'd like to see you."


	5. Starting the Fire

**Author's Note: Hmm, I wonder what Sherlock's been doing while all of this happens. This chapter is mostly from Sherlock's perspective (3rd person though). Last chapter for today, probably. I have to actually start my homework now. Reviews are loved, especially for this chapter. I want to know what you think of me using Sherlock's perspective. Would you rather I just kept it to John's? I don't own Sherlock.**

The flat was quiet when Sherlock came back from his room. He assumed John was still at the estate and grabbed his friend's laptop. He was sure John had changed the password again, but he was also sure he'd be able to figure it out in minutes.

As he waited for the computer to turn on, he looked around the room. He was surprised John hadn't cleaned up while he was hurt for the past weeks. He'd expected at least _some _of it to be straightened out.

He stretched his arm and leaned back in his chair. The pain had subsided everywhere but his shoulder, but he still felt sore whenever he moved. Still, he was capable of working, even if John wouldn't let him.

Just as he typed in the right password and the laptop started up, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He sighed and pulled out his phone.

_Number Blocked. _Sherlock had been expecting this. Ever since they'd escaped the pool, he'd known it was coming. "Hello?"

"Sherlock! How are you?" The familiar voice came sarcastically through the phone.

"What do you want, Moriarty?" Sherlock asked. He had no time for useless talk.

"Nothing much. Just thought I'd keep out little game going. Tell me…" Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice, "…where's John?"

Sherlock sat up in realization. "What have you done with him?"

"Oh, would you like to talk to him?" He heard Moriarty call out, "Oh, Johnny! Your boyfriend's on the phone."

In a moment, Sherlock heard John's voice, a small distance from the phone. "Sherlock! Sherlock, I'm fine! Don't –" The voice was muffled on the other line.

"What are you doing to him? Let him go." Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice calm.

Moriarty laughed, "Let's say… twenty four hours this time? It's a tricky one, I'll tell you that much."

"I said _let him go_." Sherlock said, starting to loose the little patience he had.

"Oh, and you might want to check your friend's blog…"

"LET HIM GO, NOW!" His anger was met by silence. He stared across the room, his mind racing. He could feel his anger and worry building inside him until he could barely contain it. He let out a roar of rage and threw the phone on the table, sitting with his head in his hands, thinking. After a moment, he looked back up at the computer and logged onto John's blog. A new post had been made, only minutes before.

_The hound is at Reichenbach. Hasn't he told you not to become too sentimental about you're pets?_

_IA_

Sherlock shoved his phone in his pocket and grabbed his jacket and scarf. He didn't care how much pain he was in. He had to save John.

* * *

I groaned and leaned against the cold stone ground, my head throbbing. The handcuffs behind my back cut into my wrists, leaving blood caked on the metal. The guard had finally taken the cloth from my mouth, letting me talk freely once again. I'd hoped to talk to Sherlock for longer, to reassure him. I worried that he would hurt himself trying to get here.

Moriarty stood in front of me, a horrible grin on his face. Irene Adler stood off to the side near the water, watching it fall down the side of the cliff.

"What do you want, Moriarty?" I asked, trying to sit up.

He simply smiled.

"What are you getting at? What are you trying to do?" I tried again.

"Oh, you know very well what I'm trying to do." He answered.

I watched him as he moved closer. What was he up to? I thought back to the pool, to the conversation he'd had with Sherlock. Only then did I realize what he was doing.

"_Let me guess, I get killed." Sherlock said, keeping the gun trained on Moriarty._

"_Kill you? Um, no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no." The man paused. "If you don't stop prying... _I will burn you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

I looked up at Moriarty in realization, mouthing the words as I thought them.

The man smirked, seeing my understanding. "I'm just starting the fire."


	6. Kill Him

**Author's Note: Finished this one during class today (we had a sub, you don't actually expect me to listen to his old war stories when I could be writing Sherlock, right?) so I figured I'd just post it now. Hope you guys like it. Thanks to everyone that's reviewed so far. I really want to know what you think of Sherlock's perspective. I'm still not so sure about it. I don't own Sherlock.**

It had to have been hours by now. My arms and wrists ached from the odd angle they'd been forced into, and my legs had been numb for far too long. I watched Moriarty cautiously. He was whispering to Irene Adler near the edge of the cliffs, smirking at me whenever he noticed me watching. I had already tried to listen to their conversation, but the rushing water drowned out every word.

A heavy feeling pressed on my chest as I let my thoughts wander to Sherlock. I wasn't entirely sure what it was, but I knew I'd felt it before. Throughout the war, I'd constantly felt it as I dodged bullets and shot at strangers. I'd thought it was fear, but now I knew it was something more. Guilt, perhaps. That feeling you get when you've done something wrong and now others will suffer from it. There was no doubt in my mind that Moriarty was luring Sherlock here to kill him, to finish the job he'd intended to finish at the pool. He was using me to get to Sherlock.

If only I'd just _listened_ to Sherlock. I had known this case would be too difficult for me to finish on my own, but the thought of proving the great Sherlock Holmes wrong had been too enticing. From the start I'd known I was in over my head. Now, Sherlock was no doubt on his way here, intending on heroically and cleverly saving the day and solving the crime as he always did. He didn't understand the danger he put himself in. If Moriarty succeeded in the no doubt elaborately put together plan he'd surely weaved by now, Sherlock would be dead within minutes of arriving. And it would be my fault that Sherlock's life was brought to an end.

_Don't think like that._ I told myself, looking up at the sound of footsteps on the rocks. Moriarty was walking closer to me, his hands casually in his pockets, with Irene trailing behind him. The smirk on his face gave me the sudden urge to squirm, but I wouldn't allow him the satisfaction. I shifted my eyes to Irene. Her face was expressionless as she stepped behind me, holding something that was all too familiar.

"Alright, then Johnny Boy," Moriarty said, stepping a bit too close for my liking. He placed a hand on my shoulder, making my body involuntarily stiffen. I felt Irene's hands tugging at the handcuffs behind my back, "You know the drill."

The restraints were pulled from my bleeding wrists as Irene strapped a heavy load to my chest. Bombs.

"You know what?" Moriarty grinned as I stared at the explosives. There was more than last time, weighing me down considerably. "Let's change it up a bit."

He pulled a gun from his pocket. I looked down at it and instantly recognized it as the one taken from me when I'd been captured. What did he intend to do, shoot me? I'd be surprised if he did (he most likely wanted to do it in front of Sherlock), but I never knew with this man. My heart began to race as he lifted the gun higher. I closed my eyes for a moment and held my breath, then opened them slowly. The gun wasn't just being held near me, it was being held _out_ to me, as if Moriarty intended on giving me back my gun.

"Wha-"

"Now, don't get too excited, John. One shot I don't instruct, and…" Moriarty's eyes shifted to the bombs on my chest, sending a clear message.

I sighed, my breath shaking slightly. "What do you want me to do with it then?"

The man looked up at me, shoving the gun into my hand and letting a small smile play on his lips. His whisper was barely audible, but the words sent a chill down my spine. "Kill him."

* * *

The hound is at Reichenbach.

He was meant to go to Reichenbach Falls, obviously. Sherlock sat in the cab, turning the message over in his mind and trying to keep it from wandering to John's current situation. It seemed too simple. Moriarty was just _telling_ him where to look. It was unlike him. It was all wrong in Sherlock's mind. He couldn't afford to make a mistake. Why would Moriarty send such an obvious clue?

Although his face showed no emotion, Sherlock Holmes felt horrible. He shouldn't have let John go on his own. He'd believed John would be able to solve the case. In fact there was no doubt in his mind that John would have been clever enough to figure it out, but he'd never imagined him getting into this much danger. He should have guessed that Moriarty would be involved in it in some way.

It was almost midnight when he arrived at the Falls. The roar of water and the howls of distant wolves blocked out any sound or sign of others. Trees surround the area leading to the cliffs, casting shadows on the pathway. Sherlock fingered the gun in his pocket, glancing around once before deciding it was safe to continue. His feet crunched over the autumn leaves as he made his way down the path and closer to the foot of the falls. The roar of the water grew steadily louder until he reached the steep climb up the rocks. He looked up at the top of the cliffs, searching for any sign of John or his captors. Although the falls blocked out most noise, it seemed much too quiet for Sherlock's liking.

He climbed the steep path up the rocks, keeping an eye out for anyone and anything. The cold was beginning to pierce his jacket, making him shiver, and his shoulder ached horribly. Yet the cold seemed to disappear once he reached the top, leaving warm relief in its place. But it seemed to leave him as quickly as it had come, creating an even colder and heavier chill.

John stood at the top of the cliff. And in his hand was a gun, pointed straight at Sherlock's heart.


	7. Get Out of the Way

**Author's Note: If any of you guys think any of this is odd or out of character, I'd love to know. I'm still not sure about some of it. I'm listening to my Doctor Who playlist right now, by the way. Just thought I'd share. I don't own Sherlock.**

My hands were shaking for the first time in months. My face was wet with sweat, even in the cold night air. The bombs beneath my jacket made me feel heavy. My breath quickened at the sight of Sherlock. I could see him from the top of the cliffs, just walking through the trees. I wanted to shout at him, to tell him to go back.

The thought of actually killing Sherlock had never crossed my mind. I'd kill myself before I shot him. Moriarty had to know that.

It felt too quiet as I watched Sherlock climb the path towards me. Moriarty had disappeared with Irene and the single guard, leaving me alone on the rocks. Still, I knew I was being watched. He was somewhere near, keeping his eye on both Sherlock and me.

An odd feeling had spread through my chest as I fingered the gun in my hand. Sherlock would be able to see me soon. My breath shook as I raised the gun. I'd think of something. I _had_ to think of something. Something clever to get us out of this. Something only Sherlock would come up with.

I could hear his footsteps now, could see the light of his flashlight falling at my feet. Slowly, I let my gaze slide up. Sherlock stood there, the normal emotionless façade gone. A look of disbelief had taken its place.

"John…" He breathed, eyeing the gun.

I had to tell him. He looked betrayed, almost… sad. My mind raced as I tried to think of a way of telling him. Thinking quickly, I tried the blinking again. He hadn't noticed it when we were at the pool, but I hoped he'd see it this time. Three short blinks, three long blinks, three short blinks. SOS.

He studied my face, then let his eyes fall to my jacket. _Please see it. Please figure it out._ I prayed, watching him.

A sudden movement behind him caught my eye. Moriarty strolled out of the darkness, a haunting smile plastered on his face. Sherlock caught the movement of my eye and turned his head slightly, whipping the gun out from his pocket.

"Well, that's no way to greet someone." Moriarty said, looking between us.

Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye, keeping the gun trained on him. Slowly, I let my own gun shift towards Moriarty as well.

"I wouldn't do that." He smirked, letting his eyes study my jacket. "Oh… and it looks like you two are standing just close enough to both be killed in the explosion."

I reluctantly kept the gun on Sherlock, worry and panic spreading through my body. I had to do something. Moriarty stalked to Sherlock's side, a smile still playing on his lips. His eyes flicked to Sherlock and back at my gun. The smile faded quickly as he took a gun from his pocket and held it to Sherlock's head. My eyes widened as I took a sharp breath.

"You didn't actually think I believed you'd go through with this." He said, clicking the gun against Sherlock's head. Sherlock stood completely still, his gun lowered. Moriarty stared at me. "Do it. Or I will."

My mind raced. I had to do something, quickly. I looked at Sherlock, wishing for something,_ anything_, to get us out of there. I acted on the first thought that struck me. Moriarty's eyes had flicked to Sherlock, giving me less than a second to send the message. I gave him a brief look, hoping the meaning was clear: Get out of the way.

Moriarty stared at me, pushing the gun harder into Sherlock's hair.

I took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. Moriarty jumped back, most likely thinking I'd tried to shoot him. Sherlock moved to the side, the bullet just missing him as he wrestled the gun from Moriarty's grip and shoved him to the ground. A small remote skidded from Moriarty's pocket and stopped centimeters from the cliff. I watched helplessly as they struggled against each other, coming closer to the edge of the falls with each step. Much too close.

"Sherlock!" I shouted as his heel slipped against the wet stones. Moriarty let a sinister smile flash on his face as he let go of Sherlock, but Sherlock saw what Moriarty was doing a second before he did it. He grabbed Moriarty as he fell, leading them both towards the roaring water below.

**Author's Note: Just a bit of trivia: If you look closely during the pool scene, John really is blinking out SOS. War prisoners use it when they're not allowed to talk so that fellow soldiers know that they're in trouble. Thought you might like to know :)**


	8. The Unsolved Case

**Author's Note: Sorry I didn't update last weekend, I was in New York for the screening of Doctor Who (it was AMAZING, by the way. All you Doctor Who fans are in for a real treat on Saturday.) and couldn't load the new chapter. Fortunately, sitting in line for several hours gave me time to write :) Just a warning, this one made me cry when I wrote it – partially because I felt like I was torturing John and partially because I was listening to my "sad writing playlist" (Doomsday, Rose's Theme, Madame de Pompadour, and Vale Decem, all from Doctor Who) and I can't help myself from crying when I listen to it. Sorry this one is kind of short. Oh, and to A Mysterious Anon (fantastic name, by the way) I'm think this will be about 15-20 chapters long. Okay, I'm done ranting now. I do not own Sherlock.**

"Sherlock!" I screamed after him, scrambling down the pathway towards the gushing river below. I reached the edge of the water and glanced around, but there was no sign of him or Moriarty. "Sherlock!"

My fingers fumbled with the bomb coated jacket, quivering from panic. I quickly threw the jacket off and bent towards the river. My breath shook as I looked towards the jagged rocks at the base of the falls. The darkness seemed to press in on me while I searched, making me feel cold and uneasy.

My breath caught in my throat at the sight of a dark figure forced against the rocks, his body broken and limp from the fall. I rushed towards it only to find that it was Moriarty. I was shocked for a moment, surprised at seeing him looking so lifeless and wrecked, but my thoughts drifted to Sherlock. The image of my friend's body as twisted and mangled as Moriarty's worked itself into my mind, leaving me more anxious and worried than before.

I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, but I ignored it. My throat felt tight and I could feel my eyes becoming wet as I searched desperately for Sherlock. He had to be nearby. "Goddamn it, Sherlock, don't do this to me… Sherlock!" I called out again in vain. I knew he wouldn't answer.

Attempting to hold back the tears that threatened to fall at any second, I closed my eyes and ran a hand through my hair. I listened for any sign of Sherlock as I stood there, praying silently that he would appear. My eyes flicked open as a howl in the distance broke through the roaring of the river.

"Sherlock…" It came out as a broken whisper, barely audible even to me over the roaring falls. "Oh, god, Sherlock…"

I took a deep, shaking breath and sat at the edge of the river. I could feel hot tears on my cheeks as I looked up at the top of the falls, staring at the spot where I'd last seen my friend through blurred eyes. Shadows moved and fell as I watched through brimming tears. I attempted to clear my throat, but it only became tighter. Blinking away tears, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. A small part of me hoped that the text would be from Sherlock, telling me he was alright, that he'd saved himself, but I knew it wouldn't happen. A new text blared at me, causing my eyes to blur against the light.

_Yet the Hound remains._

_IA _

I had to read it several times before the actual meaning really struck me. I wiped my face with the sleeve of my jumper, though new tears only ran across it right after. _He's okay,_ I tried to tell myself over and over, though it didn't help the tightening of my throat or the pain in my chest. My hands still shook as I felt the small remote Moriarty had left behind and looked at the bomb covered jacket behind me. I could end it now, couldn't I? Just the push of a button…

I shook my head, rubbing a tear splotched hand across my face and looking down at the text again. The case still remained, no consulting detective to solve it this time. The only case left unsolved by Sherlock Holmes. As new tears worked their way from my eyes, I put the phone in my pocket and stood up again, glancing around once before walking back towards the top of Reichenbach Falls. Sherlock couldn't help me anymore, but the dangers still lurked around Sir Henry Baskerville. This case had been left to me and nothing Moriarty, Irene Adler, or the bloody hounds could do would stop me from solving it.


	9. Continuing the Case

**Author's Note: Alright, another chapter! I'm on spring break now, so I'll be posting a lot more. This chapter's a lot longer than the others. We're coming back to the Hound plot now :) Also, because self promoting is fun, I've recently put up a new Doctor Who fic if anyone's interested. It's called The Apples of Love and Discord (it's Eleven/Rose). Okay, enough of that. Enjoy! I don't own Sherlock.**

It had been two weeks before I actually started working towards solving the case. The night it happened, I'd called Lestrade and had the police investigate the falls, but they found no sign of Sherlock. I was forced to tell the story to the officers an impossible amount of times until Lestrade finally took pity on me and led me back to his police car. We drove home in silence, neither one of us wanting to voice the thoughts running through our minds.

"Hey," He said, climbing out of the car as he dropped me off at 221b and standing in front of me, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine..." I nodded, though I could feel my throat becoming tight again.

"We'll find him, okay?" Lestrade assured me, studying my face.

I nodded again, "I just..." My voice shook horribly as I tried to voice my thoughts, "I... I don't know..."

Lestrade held out a tissue. I hadn't been aware that I'd been crying. I sighed and took the tissue, wiping away the tears.

"We're gonna find him. He'll be okay." Lestrade said, patting me on the back.

I nodded once more, knowing if I said anything I'd just start crying again. With a sad smile, he turned and walked back to the police car. I slowly opened the door and walked up the stairs, wondering where Mrs. Hudson was, what she'd say when she found out.

The flat felt cold and empty without Sherlock lying on the sofa or mumbling to himself in his chair. I sat down and looked around the flat, sighing heavily and running a hand through my hair. I stayed there, thinking, for hours. It was almost four in the morning before I forced myself to move. I walked into Sherlock's room first, glancing sadly around the untidy space inside. Unfinished experiments littered the floor and tables, and the bed was left unmade. I sat on the edge of the sheets, biting my lip and shaking my head against the tears that formed in my eyes.

_He'll be fine. They'll find him. _I repeated it over and over in my mind, trying to convince myself that he was okay, but I knew he couldn't be.

My hands balled into fists around the sheets. I felt sad and angry and _oh,_ so guilty. It should have been me. Why hadn't it been me? He'd left me behind, left me wishing I were with him, no matter where he was.

I shook my head again. Damn him for making me feel like this, for making me _care_ like this. For making me want to cry and yell for the first time in years. I'd been through it before, during the war, but this was different somehow. I was able to move on after those deaths. I didn't know if I'd be able to do that now.

I sighed and walked towards my room, sitting on the bed until the early morning light started coming in through the windows. I didn't want to sleep, yet I was ridiculously tired. It was pointless to even try, what with the constant worry and thoughts running through my mind. I made my way back to the front room, sitting down in a chair and staring at the seat across from me, wishing Sherlock were sitting there with me.

I must have fallen asleep there, because the next thing I knew I was blinking through the afternoon light, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. A blanket lay across my body, though I didn't know how it had gotten there. Mrs. Hudson must have come up and given it to me.

I took a deep breath and grabbed my lap top from the table. It was already logged in, my blog still up on the screen. A new post, clearly not by me, was opened from the night before.

_The hound is at Reichenbach. Hasn't he told you not to become too sentimental about you're pets?_

_IA_

I shook my head, closing the lap top and rubbing my hands over my face.

The next few days were a blur. I sat awake until the early hours of the morning most nights, waiting for any news of Sherlock. After a week and a half the police wanted to pronounce him dead, but Lestrade held it off until the end of the week. When they finally announced it, the news was all over the papers. I sat in the flat that day with Mrs. Hudson, trying to find a news channel on the telly that didn't revolve around the consulting detective. That night, I called up Dr. James Mortimer.

"Hello?"

"Hi," I cleared my throat, "Hello, it's John Watson. You know, from the-"

"Oh, yes, of course. Hello, Dr. Watson." Mortimer said through the phone. "Listen, I, um... I heard about your...your friend..."

"Yeah..."

"I'm sorry." An awkward silence fell through the line. "So, what's going on?"

"I, um," I cleared my throat again, "I'm going to continue on your case. I haven't been able to recently, but I'll start it up again tomorrow."

"Oh... oh, good!" He cried. "Fantastic. Will you be coming up to the estate, then?"

"I was hoping to, yeah."

"Right. I'll see you tomorrow. Shall I bring Sir Henry?"

"Sure. That'd be great."

"See you then."

The next morning I took a cab to the Baskville's estate, meeting Mortimer and Henry at the gates. They were talking in hushed voices, an angry air around them.

Mortimer looked up on hearing my approach. "Ah, Dr. Watson. Good to see you."

I faked a smile and looked past the pair towards the estate. At least ten police officers were investigating the yard. "What's going on here?"

"A murderer has escaped." Sir Henry said, obvious agitation in his voice. "They think he might be here."

"Why would they think that?"

"Seems like someone tipped them off." Mortimer answered, turning as two men started towards us. One was quite tall, a thick beard covering his mouth and a large hat upon his dark hair. The other was large and muscular, keeping his own hat over his eyes. Both seemed strangely familiar to me, but I dismissed it.

"Ah, Mr. Stapleton." Mortimer nodded at the larger man. "I see you've brought a friend with you."

"Yes, I met him just days ago. He insisted on coming with me today. He finds this sort of thing... intriguing." The man looked at his friend and grinned.

"Alright then. What's your name?" Sir Henry asked, looking the man's bearded companion.

"My name is unimportant." The man said. He had an odd accent, yet there was something familiar about his voice.

"Well, I need something to call you by, don't I?" Henry said, becoming suspicious.

The man hesitated. "Call me John."

"Ah, just like our friend here." Mortimer clapped me on the back. I gave the two men a small smile and turned towards Henry, though I was vaguely aware of the two men staring at me.

"Can we go in?" I asked.

"Of course, we've just got to avoid the police. They told us not to get in the way." Sir Henry rolled his eyes as he opened the gates, pushing past officers towards the house. "You saw where he died last time, didn't you?"

"Yes, only for a bit. We can check back there afterwards, I suppose." I answered, clearing my throat. The two men, Stapleton and John, followed closely behind us. Police officers watched us cautiously as we started towards the house. Mortimer and Henry led us towards the door, flashing looks at every officer nearby. Finally struggling past a large amount of police tape around the door, we finally entered the house, Stapleton and John still standing much to close behind me for my liking.


	10. Alone With the Bearded Man

**Author's Note: Yay, double digit chapters! Finished this one last night, but I thought I'd save it for today. I feel like some of you have already guessed at this chapter (most likely because you've read the books and know the plots I'm trying to tie in), but I hope some of you are surprised :) Hope you like it, reviews are loved. I don't own Sherlock.**

Compared to the large amount of noise made by the police officers outside, the house felt oddly quiet. The five of us made our way into the main hall, our footsteps reverberating across the tiled floor.

"So, where would you like to start?" Mortimer asked, turning towards me.

"Sir Baskerville's bedroom." The bearded man, John, answered. He glanced at me wearily. "I mean, if you don't mind. It seems to make the most sense to me."

"Yeah, okay." I nodded, looking back at Mortimer. He led us up the staircase towards a large door at the end of the top floor.

"We've left it just as it was that night." He said, bringing us into the room. It was extremely clean, not a thing out of place. A fire place was at the far end of the room, surrounded by several chairs. Long, thick curtains draped over the windows, leaving the room dark and cold. A large, framed portrait of Sir Charles Baskerville was mounted above the mantle piece.

I glanced around the room, trying to decide where to start. Stapleton and John walked forward, investigating the bed and windows.

I looked at Mortimer and Sir Henry. "Who exactly is Mr. Stapleton?"

"A former teacher. He showed interest in the case after your friend, um..."

"Ah, yes." I nodded, trying to avoid the subject. I gave them a small smile and walked towards the fire. I studied the mantle piece and tried to find anything of importance. My gaze shifted towards the painting just before Stapleton cried out, "Oh, Dr. Watson, look!"

I turned towards the pair to see John staring at his friend, confused. Stapleton motioned for me to come over. I walked towards them slowly. "Yes, Stapleton?"

"I, ah... I thought I'd found something. Nevermind."

I glanced from him to John, trying to figure out what they were up to. John stared past me at the painting, his eyes flicking across every detail of it. He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and started writing. Stapleton glanced at the paper and looked back at me. "Sorry, but, um... we already checked over there. Will you help us over here instead?"

"I suppose." I cleared my throat and stepped towards them, still not convinced that I should trust the pair.

"Sir Henry, Mr. Mortimer?" A voice called from the door. A young woman stood in the doorway. She was thin and pale, her voice quavering slightly. "The officers downstairs want to see you."

"Ah, Beryl. Dr. Watson, this is my sister." Stapleton smiled. "She's helping us as well. Shall I come as well, Beryl?"

"I... I think it's about this murderer though..." She eyed him nervously.

His smile grew wider. "I'll go down then. I need to speak with you, anyway. You coming, John?"

The bearded man glanced at me, then shook his head. "I'll keep investigating with Dr. Watson."

Beryl let her brother pass her, looking back at the two of us. She had a strange look on her face, almost as if she was scared, as she closed the door behind her. I glanced at John awkwardly, looking back towards the painting above the mantle piece.

"Well, he clearly didn't want me to see this." I said, moving closer to the painting. John followed me, a small smile on his lips. I tried to ignore the man standing behind me as I studied the painting. There was something familiar about this picture of Sir Charles, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it.

I looked at it for a few moments, then backed up in realization. "It looks a bit like him, doesn't it? Stapleton." I glanced back at John. His smile had grown considerably wider.

"Good." He nodded, still staring at the painting over my shoulder. "Say, what do you think about that part there?"

I turned back to the painting, looking for what he'd pointed at. "I don't see any-" I looked back, but the bearded companion of Stapleton no longer stood behind me.

Instead, I was looking into the smiling face of Sherlock Holmes.


	11. Tonight

**Author's Note: Sorry I haven't updated in _forever_, but I've been insanely busy. I'm not particularly fond of this chapter because I wasn't really sure how to write John's reaction, but I hope you like it. AKLHFAKLDHSLAKADKL NEW SERIES BEING FILMED AS I WRITE. Oh, and if you've read the original stories, you might recognize the curtain part from the Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton. Favorite story right there :) I don't own Sherlock.**

I must have fainted, for the first and decidedly _last_ time in my life, because the next moment I was sitting in one of the chairs by the fire, Sherlock kneeling on the ground beside me. He was still smiling, watching me as I blinked my eyes at him. I started to sit up as he pushed himself to his feet and stood back, waiting for me to say something.

I struggled out of the chair, studying him. The fake beard he'd been wearing lay on the floor, as did the hat, but he still wore his elaborate costume. My mind raced as I looked at him, trying to figure out if it was really him or not.

After a moment's hesitation, I pushed myself forward and wrapped my arms around him, partially to reassure myself that he was actually there and partially because I couldn't believe he was standing in front of me. I felt a smile forming on my face as I held him, relief spreading through my body. He tensed at first, but quickly relaxed and placed his hands on my shoulders. A moment later, he let his arms wrap around me, pushing my face into his jacket. I smiled into his scarf, finally allowing myself to believe that he was truly there.

"What happened?" I asked after a few moments, stepping back slowly.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, just tell me what happened."

"Well, you have just fainted."

"I'm fine, Sherlock."

He studied me for a moment, then glanced at the door, making sure it was closed. He sat down in one of the chairs, looking up at the painting above the mantelpiece again. "There was a ledge just below the cliff. I was able to grab onto it."

I smiled, sitting in the seat across from him. "Where have you been, then?"

"I hurt my shoulder in the fall, so I stayed on the ledge for a while. I waited until you left to move again, but when I tried to leave Moriarty's guard tried to stop me. I got away easily enough, but I knew more of his men would come after me if I wasn't careful. So," He said, shifting in his seat, "I decided it would be safest to let everyone assume I was dead."

"And you couldn't bother to tell me?" I asked, "What about Mycroft? Or Mrs. Hudson? We've all been worried out of our minds!"

"Oh, I told Mycroft. He was the only one though." He gave me a small smile. "I thought you might put it on your blog or tell someone. Better safe than sorry."

I waved off the slight anger starting up inside me. "What have you been doing then?"

"Well, that night I went by the flat, just to make sure you'd made it home and hadn't been attacked by Moriarty's guards or anything." He paused. "You were sleeping when I got there."

"Oh, you... you put the blanket on me."

"…Yes."

I hesitated. "Oh, um… thanks."

Sherlock nodded and continued his story. "I've been traveling since then. I had to keep away from Moriarty's men. A few days ago I stumbled into Stapleton and his wife-"

"Sorry, wife? I didn't know he was married."

"The woman posing as his sister. Beryl Stapleton."

I stared at him for a moment then nodded at him to continue.

"I recognized him from that painting and Reichenbach-"

"He was there?"

He gave me a slightly irritated look for interrupting him again. "Yes, he was the guard."

"...oh!"

"Yes, so I attempted to befriend him to find out what he was up to. I've been able to deduce that he let the hound loose on Sir Charles, and I know he must be planning something against Sir Henry soon, but I just need proof." He sighed, "And here I am."

I sat quietly, thinking about what he'd just told me. I closed my eyes for a moment before looking back up at him. "But how did you-" I stopped as he stood up abruptly, his gaze fixed on the door.

"Sherlock -"

"Shut up." He stared at the door a second longer, then grabbed my wrist and pulled me out of the chair. He glanced around the room and led me towards the window, pulling the thick curtains around us.

"Sherlock, what are you -"

"Quiet. They're coming back." He quickly made sure the curtains completely covered us and released my wrist.

After a moment I heard what his ears had picked up – two pairs of footsteps were making their way towards the room, along with hushed voices.

"It's fine, Beryl. Nothing to worry about."

"But -"

"I have it all under control. We need to – where'd they go?"

I held my breath as we listened to Stapleton and his wife entered the room. Sherlock closed his eyes slowly, the back of his head pressed against the window behind us.

"Must have gone to search some other part of the house." I heard Beryl suggest.

"Well, they're not gonna find anything if they have." Stapleton's voice stated. "Don't worry, Beryl."

Slowly, I pulled apart the curtain a fraction, just enough so I could see what was going on. I felt Sherlock lean against me as he tried to look over my shoulder. Stapleton sat in the chair Sherlock had occupied only seconds ago, his wife standing in front of him.

"We should go find them." Beryl said nervously.

"Fine." Stapleton stood up. Sherlock and I quickly pulled the curtains closed, holding our breath. I heard his footsteps as he crossed the carpeted floors. "But if you act like this tonight, you know that _everything_ will go wrong."

The door clicked closed as my gaze locked on Sherlock's. "_Tonight?_"


End file.
